It wasn't what she expected.

The raw light of the studio went out, plunging the set into a sudden gloom that seemed to absorb every last sound. The silence that followed the camera’s final click was more deafening than the one before. Celia remained standing in the center of the empty circle, motionless, as if the orders had petrified her muscles. Tears had drawn two dark lines through the makeup Lilith had applied with an expert hand less than an hour ago.

Magi didn't dare approach. Her hands, the very same ones that had guided her sister's arms into humiliation, hung inert at her sides, heavy as blocks of solidified guilt.

It was Elara who broke the spell. She approached Celia not with Lilith's rawness, but with a deliberate slowness that was even more terrifying.

"Good," she murmured, almost to herself, as her eyes raked over the girl's trembling body. "The first cut is always the deepest." Her hand, cold despite the temperature of the studio, rested on Celia’s bare shoulder. "Now comes the important part: the scarring."

Celia shivered at the touch, but she didn't pull away. She seemed to have exhausted all capacity to react.

"Magi," Elara called without turning. "Escort your sister to the dressing room. Help her change." She made a deliberate pause. "And afterward, stay with her. Tonight, your job is to take care of her."

The words fell on Magi like a block of ice. Take care of her? After what she had just done? It was a sadistic joke, another turn of the screw in her torment.

Nevertheless, she obeyed. With slow steps, she approached Celia. Touching her elbow to guide her, she noticed her skin was freezing.

"Let's go," Magi whispered, in a voice she didn't recognize as her own.

Celia let herself be led, mechanical, her eyes glassy and fixed on a distant, unreachable point. The walk to the dressing room was a silent ordeal. Once inside, Magi closed the door and leaned against it, searching for a strength she didn't possess.

"Celia…" she began to say, but the words choked in her throat. What could she say? "I'm sorry"? It was as insufficient as it was obscene.

It was Celia who broke the silence. With clumsy movements, she began to take off the pink dress. The silk, now stained with sweat and tears, slid down her body and formed a puddle of pale color on the floor.

"It hurts," she said, and her voice was a broken thread, stripped of the energy it had just a few hours before. "It hurts more than I thought."

Magi clenched her fists, feeling her nails digging into her palms. "You should have seen it. You should have understood…"

"I saw it," Celia interrupted her, turning for the first time to look at her. Her reddened eyes didn't express anger, but a disillusionment so profound it was an abyss. "And I understood. I understood you were right. This isn't a game." She ran a hand over her back, as if trying to erase the feeling of exposure. "But you… you pushed me. Your hands…"

Magi couldn't bear her gaze. She lowered her head. "It was an order."

"You are my sister!" Celia exploded, and for a second, the fire returned to her voice, a fire of rage and betrayal. "You're supposed to protect me, not… not help them."

The reproach was fair, deserved, and for that very reason, it was a knife twisting in the wound. Magi had no defense. Only the truth, miserable and cold.

"There are no sisters here," she said, looking up, and in her eyes, there was no longer a trace of the Magi that Celia knew. "There are only mirrors. And you just became one. I only… adjusted the angle."

Celia looked at her in disbelief, as if she didn't recognize the person standing in front of her. Then, a shiver ran through her, and she broke down crying again, but this time without a sound, with a dry, heart-wrenching sob that shook her entire body.

Magi didn't try to comfort her. She knew any comfort would be another lie. Instead, she did what Elara had ordered: she "took care" of her. She handed her a towel, passed her her street clothes, waited in silence for her to get dressed. Every gesture, every minute of that shared silence, was a reminder of what she had lost: her sister's trust, the last piece of her humanity.

When they left the studio, the night enveloped them. They walked together toward Magi's apartment, but the distance between them was abysmal. Celia walked with her head down, shrunken into herself. Magi walked straight, her gaze fixed ahead, carrying the weight of a guilt that, she realized then, would be her perpetual companion. Elara's "care" was not a cure. It was the guarantee that Magi could never forget, nor forgive herself, for what she had done to her own sister. The scar, if it ever managed to form, would always bear the imprint of her own hands.